John Connolly - The Black Angel

“I just came to keep an eye on Phil, in case he got carried away by the excitement and bid on a skull.”

She invited us to join her for a drink. We followed her through a door marked PRIVATE and into a room cozily furnished with over-stuffed couches and leather chairs. Catalogs for past and forthcoming auctions were piled neatly on two sideboards and fanned across an ornate coffee table. Ms. Stern opened a lavishly stocked bar cabinet and invited us to make our selection. I had an alcohol-free Becks just to be polite. Phil opted for red wine.

“Actually, I was rather surprised you didn’t make a bid yourself, Mr. Parker,” she said. “After all, you were the one who came to me with that interesting bone sculpture.”

“I’m not a collector, Ms. Stern.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would be. In fact, you appear to be a rather harsh judge of collectors, as testified to by the late Mr. Garcia’s end. Have you discovered anything more about him?”

“A little.”

“Anything you’d like to share?”

Her expression was one of vague superiority, capped with a wry grin. Whatever I had to tell her about Garcia, she figured she knew already.

“He kept videos of dead and dying women. I think he played an active role in their creation.”

A ripple passed across Ms. Stern’s face, and the angle of her grin was reduced slightly.

“And you believe that his presence in New York was linked to the Sedlec box auctioned today,” she said. “Otherwise, why would you be here?”

“I’d like to know who bought it,” I said.

“A lot of people would like to know that.”

She readjusted her sights and aimed her charm at Phil. Its veneer was thin. I got the impression that she was displeased both by his presence, and by the fact that he had not come alone. Phil, I think, sensed it too.

“All of this is, of course, off the record,” she said.

“I’m not here in my journalistic capacity,” said Phil.

“You know you’re always welcome here, in any capacity,” she replied, but she made it sound like a lie. “It’s just that in this case, discretion was, and is, required.”

She sipped her wine. A thin trickle dripped down the glass. It stained her chin slightly, but she didn’t appear to notice.

“This was a very delicate sale, Mr. Parker. The value of the lot was directly proportionate to the degree of secrecy surrounding its contents. If the contents of the fragment were revealed before the sale-if, for example, we had permitted potential bidders to examine the entire vellum in detail, instead of just a portion-then it would have sold for far less than it did today. The majority of bidders in the room were merely curiosity seekers, faintly hoping to gain for themselves a link to an obscure occult myth. The real money was far from here. A total of six individuals went to the trouble of lodging deposits with us in order to be permitted to examine a cutting from the vellum, none of whom were in the auction room today. Not one person was allowed to view even one of the symbols or drawings depicted upon it.”

“Apart from you.”

“I looked at it, as did two of my staff, but frankly it was meaningless to me. Even were I able to interpret it, I would still have required the other fragments to place it in context. Our concern was that someone already in possession of additional drawings might view our fragment and add its contents to what he or she knew.”

“Are you aware of its provenance?” I said. “I understand that it was in dispute.”

“You’re referring to the fact that it was believed to have been stolen from Sedlec itself? There is no proof that this was the same box. The item came to us from a trusted European source. We believed that it was real, and so too did those who bid upon it today.”

“And you’ll keep the winning bid secret?”

“As best we can. Such things have a habit of filtering out eventually, but we have no wish to make the buyer a target for unscrupulous men. Our reputation rests upon preserving the anonymity of our clients, particularly given the nature of some of the items that pass through this house.”

“So you’re aware that the buyer may be at risk?”

“Or it may be that others are now at risk from the buyer,” she replied.

She was watching me carefully.

“Was the buyer a Believer? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Ms. Stern laughed, exposing her slightly stained teeth.

“I’m telling you nothing, Mr. Parker, merely pointing out that there is more than one conclusion to be drawn. All I can say for certain is that I will be a great deal happier once the box has left my possession. Thankfully, it is small enough to be passed to the buyer without attracting undue attention. We will be done with it by close of business.”

“What about you, Ms. Stern?” I said. “Do you think you might be at risk? After all, you’ve seen it.”

She drained a little more of her wine, then stood. We rose with her. Our time here was at an end.

“I have been in this profession for a long time,” she said. “In truth, I have seen some very strange items in the course of my dealings, and I have met some equally strange individuals. None of them has ever threatened me, and none ever will. I am well protected.”

I wasn’t about to doubt her. Everything about the House of Stern made me uneasy. It was like a trading post at the junction of two worlds.

“Are you a Believer, Ms. Stern?”

She put her glass down, then slowly rolled up each sleeve of her blouse in turn. Her arms were unmarked. All trace of good humor left her during the performance of the act.

“I believe in a great many things, Mr. Parker, some with very good reason. One of those things is good manners, of which you appear to have none. In future, Philip, I’d be grateful if you would check with me before you bring guests to my auctions. I can only hope that your taste in companions is the only faculty that appears to have deserted you since last we met, or else your newspaper will have to look elsewhere for its art criticism.”

Ms. Stern opened the door and waited for us to leave. Phil looked embarrassed. When he said good-bye to her she didn’t reply, but she spoke to me as I followed Phil from the room.

“You should have stayed in Maine, Mr Parker,” she said. “You should have kept your head down and lived a quiet life, then you would not have come to anyone’s attention.”

“You’ll forgive me for not trembling,” I said. “I’ve met people like the Believers before.”

“No,” she replied, “you have not.”

Then she closed the door in my face.

I walked Phil to his car.

“Sorry if I made life awkward for you,” I said, as he closed his door and rolled down the window.

“I never liked her anyway,” he said, “and her wine was corked. Tell me, though: does everybody react as badly to you as she did?”

I reflected on the question.

“Actually,” I said, as I left him, “that was pretty good for me.”

Angel and Louis were waiting for me nearby. They were eating oversized wraps and drinking bottled water in Louis’s Lexus. Angel, I noticed, had half the world’s napkin production laid over his legs, his feet, the parts of the seat not covered by his body, and the floor itself. It was a slight case of overkill, although some stray beansprouts and a couple of blobs of sauce had hit the napkins already, so it paid to be cautious.

“He must really love you if he’s letting you eat in his car,” I said, as I climbed in the back to talk to them. Louis acknowledged me with a nod, but there was still something unspoken between us. I was not about to broach the subject. He would do so, in his own time.

“Yeah, it’s only taken, like, a decade,” said Angel. “For the first five years, he wouldn’t even let me sit in his car. We’ve come a long way.”